


The Land of Opportunity

by roidadidou



Category: Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: alcohol mentioned, political metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 12:48:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13388130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roidadidou/pseuds/roidadidou
Summary: "“Do you think… Do you think that we’re- you know, cups and dice and forks, people like us, are just meant to do only one job? That we’re born into it?” Mugman asked delicately, fiddling with his fingers."When Cuphead and Mugman decide they want to be firefighters, they're forced to learn about the societal expectation placed upon them.





	The Land of Opportunity

Every Saturday morning, Cuphead and Mugman woke up as the aroma of cooked breakfast wafted under their noses.  


This morning, it was the bitter, throat-stinging stench of smoke.  


They bounded down the stairs, only to find their own house spared of any disaster. Yet the front door was left wide open, and Elder Kettle stood on the porch, a hand covering his mouth in shock.  


“It’s that planetarium,” He muttered in his raspy drawl. Cuphead and Mugman glanced at each other with one name in mind; Hilda Berg.  


They ran out of the kettle’s sight before he could stop them, and just as the burning building came into view, they were halted by the overwhelming whoop of a fire engine. On top of the truck, producing the noise, was a man with a red alarm bell for a head.  


Hilda’s safety wasn’t endangered. She was outside already, watching as her planetarium had burst into flames.   


“Are you okay, Hilda?” Cuphead shouted as the boys drew close.  


“How’d it happen?” Mugman continued.  


“Oh, I don’t know! A visitor on a tour must have knocked over an ashtray, or… Or something, and I woke up with my whole room filled with smoke!”  


She was far from hysteria, but far from composure.  


“Hey, it’s not too bad… The place is still standing, ain’t it?” Cuphead tried to comfort her.  


“I suppose… This is why we’ve all got insurance… But thank the stars those firefighters came when they did, or I wouldn’t have anywhere to sleep tonight.”  


It wasn’t a terrible tragedy; the firefighters were able to take care of it quickly, before any damage had become irreparable.  


An anthropomorphic dalmatian, dressed in the standard gear to fight fires, approached them. Behind him, his coworkers packed up their equipment, steam rising from the extinguished building.  


“Hope you three aren’t too rattled. Fires are kind of hard on the heart.” He said, a hospitable grin stretched across his muzzle, in an attempt to make them feel better.  


“Oh, no, goodness, I’m fine.” Hilda managed a smile. “It’ll be harder on my wallet.”  


“Holy smokes!” Cuphead interjected.  


“You guys were amazing! With your big tall ladder-”  


“And the giant hose that four of you had to hold at once-” Mugman interrupted.  


“And your shiny red truck!” Cuphead finished.  


The dalmation tried to stay humble.  


“Well, it’s our job to help everyone on Inkwell Isle-”  


“We wanna help, too!” The boys were ecstatic.  


“We wanna be firefighters!”  


“With cups for heads? I’m sure there are jobs better suited for you two.” Hilda said with some sort of maternal, almost scolding fashion.  


“Uhm… Well… Being a firefighter is very dangerous, you know,” The dalmatian groped for words after Hilda’s somewhat awkward remark.  


“Are you kidding? Danger’s our middle names! We saved all of Inkwell Isle from the Devil!” Cuphead was unphased.  


“Maybe so, but it’s not the natural order to see teacups fighting fires.” Hilda finished.  


They stood, somewhat quietly.  


“You boys better skidaddle on home. I’ve got to call my insurance agency…” She said, dragging her gloved hand down her face, her pointed nose flipping upward back into position after the action.  
___  


“Who’s she to say we can’t be firefighters?” Cuphead grumbled, kicking rocks as the brothers walked.  


“What does she know, her big nose’s always stuck under that telescope.” Mugman mumbled, his hands in his pockets.  


“I bet Elder Kettle will be nicer about it. He was in the Civil War, wasn’t he?” Cuphead finished as they approached their home.  
___  


“Firefighters?” Elder Kettle repeated, somewhat shocked. “You two boys are better off in a coffee shop when you get older…”  


The brothers were shocked.  


“How can you say that?! Weren’t you drafted for the war?” Mugman asked.  


“Well, I was, yes, but-”  


“On the frontline, fighting dirty Confederates?” The blue-clad cup inquired.  


“Your uniform ruined after weeks in the trenches, journalists on either side chronicling your adventures?” His brother added.  


“Risking your life to keep America whole?”  


“Boys!” Elder Kettle interrupted, ending their story. “Yes, I served during the Civil War. But… But I’m a kettle. I served coffee.”  


The straws fell limp in their heads as a sign of dejection.  


“But… I peeled potatoes sometimes, too!”  


The boys were crushed. Were they really meant to work at a coffee shop?  


Elder Kettle wrapped his arms around their shoulders, pulling them closer.  


“Hey, now, don’t fall apart… Everybody’s born to do a certain thing, and it’s just our job to do it. It’s the natural order of things.”  


“But in school, all the grown-ups say we can do anything we want to when we grow up.” Mugman stated sadly.  


“Well… The people that say that are humans, son, and… When they say it, they’re saying it to other humans.”  


Cuphead ground his foot into the floor, watching his shoe twist back and forth.  


Elder Kettle sat silently, then patted their shoulders and stood straight.  


“Wipe the frowns off your faces, boys, I won’t have that in my house. If you’re gonna frown, you should do it on Isle Three instead.”  


They looked up to see two gold coins in his hand.  


“Go to that malt shop and get yourself some sodas. Maybe they’ll let you wash the dishes in exchange for ice cream, huh? Your first job?”  


They perked up, their smiles returning as they took the coins.  


“Golly, thanks, Elder Kettle!” They said in unison.  


He smiled and nodded in response, and they skipped out the door, heading for the malt shop.  
___  


Isle Three was always active; a beach-side city where every high-rise office building or tourist timeshare had a view of the ocean. It was nice, but it was nicer to live somewhere else and be able to get away from the noise. It was a novelty; being told by Elder Kettle that they would be going to Isle Three for groceries or new shoes was always a treat.  


Cuphead and Mugman easily navigated the streets, looking at all the boardwalk shop windows. They found the malt shop, and entered, only to see a familiar friend.  


“Forkington!” Cuphead greeted, as they both sat down next to him on the barstools. He turned to them, swallowing the mouthful of hamburger he was chewing.  


“Good afternoon, boys. We all heard about the fire at Hilda Berg’s planetarium; how is she doing?”  


Gosh, news spread quickly. No better grapevine than the worth of mouth.  


“Oh, it wasn’t too bad. She was outside and fine when we got there. We don’t live too far from her.” Mugman answered.  


“Gee, that reminds me… Can I ask you a question?” Cuphead asked, his cheek supported by his palm, elbow on the countertop.  


“What’s on your mind?”  


“Well, when me and Mugs saw how cool the firefighters were, we decided we wanted to be firefighters, too-”  


“Teacup firefighters?”  


“That’s our point!” Mugman interrupted.  


“Everyone’s telling us we should work in a coffee shop! Elder Kettle even said we should ask to wash dishes here!” He finished, his hands balled into fists on the table.  


“Well, he’s not wrong. People like you and me… We’re meant for a certain line of work.”  


The brothers were disappointed to find the same advice again. It wasn’t helpful.  


“Now, I’ve broken the mold a bit… I was always told to work at a restaurant, you know, being a fork… But not so.”  


They perked up slightly.  


“I’m a food critic.”  


“A what?” Cuphead asked, a wrinkle in his nose.  


“I go to restaurants, order a meal, and sell my reviews to the newspapers. It helps all of Inkwell Isle know which establishments are worth their money.”  


The boys weren’t satisfied by their answer.  


“So… You still work with food.”  


“Correct.”  


“But… That’s still something humans would expect out of you, isn’t it?” Mugman inquired.  


“I don’t have any qualms. Someday, it won’t be just the humans who get to pick their job. But that day isn’t today, and I can wait patiently.”  


He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, crumpling it and dropping it onto the plate.  


“Alright… Not subtle or nuanced, but tasteless and lukewarm. But it was alright.”  


He stood, heading for the door.  


“You boys have a nice day. I know what I said wasn’t what you wanted to hear, but it was the truth.”  


The bell on the door jingled as it swung open and shut. The mindless chatter of other patrons droned behind them, but they sat in silence.  


They only noticed a change when everyone else stopped talking. They turned to see what they were looking at.  


It was King Dice, who was just as surprised to see them.  


“King Dice?” Cuphead and Mugman mumbled in unison.  


“Cuphead? And, uh… Blue Cuphead?”  


“Mugman.”  


“And Mugman?”  


They shook off their surprise, before leaping out of their chairs and pointing their fingers at him. He raised his hands up defensively.  


“Woah! I’m not here to fight! I’m just here for a cup of coffee.”  


Their arms lowered slightly.  


“Really?” Cuphead asked.  


“Aren’t you still working with the Devil? Plotting some kind of revenge on us?”  


“Yes, I am, but I’m off the clock!”  


Confused, they returned to their seats as King Dice took one of his own, sitting at the bar.  


“How does that work?”  


“See, the funny thing- that is, what most people don’t know, is that there’s a punishment in Hell for the Devil, too.”  


“What is it?” Mugman asked.  


“The union.”  


The brothers glanced at each other, not understanding.  


But what they did understand was each other; twins have some sort of special language between themselves, and these boys were no exception. With only a few passing glares, they decided to ask King Dice for advice on their predicament.  


“King Dice,”  


“Hmm?”  


“Can I ask you a question?” Mugman asked.  


“You just did. But ask another one.” The manager responded. A cup of coffee was placed in front of him. He pulled a flask from his jacket, and generously spiked his drink with a clear liquid that certainly wasn’t water.  


“Do you think… Do you think that we’re- you know, cups and dice and forks, people like us, are just meant to do only one job? That we’re born into it?” Mugman asked delicately, fiddling with his fingers.  


The question struck a chord with the towering man, who’s hunch seemed to slouch over a little less so, as he gazed off into nothing.  


“... I wanted to be an architect.”  


“Huh?”  


“I wanted to design houses. When I was… Just a little boy, laying down on the lawn in front of my house, I thought, it didn’t just pop out of nowhere. Someone drew the blueprints and made it look nice and pretty, wrote down all the numbers so construction workers knew how long to make the wood planks and how tall to make the foundation… And I wanted to do that.”  


Cuphead and Mugman sat silently, watching his face. They didn’t know what to expect of him next; he was certainly unpredictable.  


“Little boys want to do all sorts of things! Be the first man on the moon! Be a detective, arresting criminals and solving mysteries! Be a doctor, a firefighter, a cowboy, a sailor, a train conductor!”  


He turned to them quickly, sending a jolt up their spines. His breath smelt of brandy.  


“But you know what? Only human boys get to have these sorts of dreams, you know that? I know you do. Otherwise, you wouldn’t’ve asked me! Only human boys get to wear the costumes… And play pretend… Without their parents telling them to quit the nonsense.”  


“Is… That what… Your parents told you?”  


He nodded, slowly, not making eye contact.  


“My father was a croupier, my mother was a dancer… Just at those rinky-dink casino clubs. Daddy sat me down one night and said, ‘Son, our ancestors sold snake oil, and scammed, and gambled, because they had tonic bottles and playing cards and poker chips on their faces… And someday, we won’t have to do that anymore. But not today. That day just hasn’t come yet, and you’re gonna get hurt if you try to force it.’”  


He stood, quickly, so quickly that his coffee rippled and nearly toppled over.  


“When’s that day gonna come if nobody tries, Goddammit!”  


Every face in the shop stared.  


“Why’d you ask me, boys, what did you want? What would you rather be doing than washing dishes or serving meals?!”  


“A-a-... A fire-f-f-fighter,” Mugman stammered, very quietly.  


“Be the best Goddamn firefighters there ever was! Pull your heads off and use them to throw water!” He shouted, removing his own head from his collar and throwing it about, pretending to scoop like a bucket for effect.  


“This is the land of opportunity! I’m so- so- so tired of being treated like some sort of sleaze, when I had no other option! The next time I see Uncle Sam’s smug, pink, flesh face staring at me, telling me I’m living the most free life there is, I’ll rip the poster off the wall it’s hung on!”  


His fists threw about, his face pointed upwards, his knees bent as if he were a priest reciting a gospel in church.  


“You want things to change?! Make it happen yourselves!”  


He stopped, standing straight, breathing deeply, eyes wide and angry. He looked around, seeing the fear-stricken faces in the malt shop. He had made quite the scene. He picked up his coffee cup, finishing it in a single gulp, and threw a gold coin on the counter.  


The bell on the door jingled as it swung open and shut.


End file.
